Make The Yuletide Gay
by Telemain's Daughter
Summary: A series of warm and/or fluffy Snowbaz holiday drabbles.
1. The Christmas After

_A/N: Since the holidays-Christmas in particular-are so central to the book and fandom, this is going to be a place for any holiday Snowbaz drabbles or short one-shots I may think of, prompted or not. (Is there something you want to see? PM me or leave it in the comments!) Check out my other ongoing series, Wake Me Up When It's Over, for more fluffy fun. **end shameless self-promotion**_

 _All rights belong to Rainbor Rowell and St. Martin's/Macmillan._

 _Happy Holidays! Read and review, please, I love hearing from you!_

* * *

Christmas is very important to Snow. He loves everything about it. He's spent most of December and part of November making lists of Christmas things: gifts, food, activities, food, decorations, food. We were going to have Christmas in Bunce and Snow's flat, but an unexpected leak and a surprise invitation from The American Boyfriend meant that we found ourselves, on Christmas Eve, with nowhere to go.

So we went home.

It's hard to think of it as home, because it's not the house I grew up in. It's one of the Other Houses. Still on the National Trust, though, retaining the lovely familiarity of being unable to move the furnishings or repaper the walls.

I thought it would be weird, coming here, after. I thought Father would be–I don't know what I thought he'd be, the way he'd act around Simon. He's being surprisingly tolerant. I think Daphne had a very long talk with him. He spends a lot of time in his study, which isn't all that unusual, really, but when he does emerge, at least he's polite.

He keeps calling Simon "Mr. Snow," though, and Si doesn't know what to make of that.

He's in the kitchen with Daphne now. (Simon, not my Father.) She's teaching him how to make scones. There'll be no stopping him after this.

The French door opens and my father walks out onto the patio with me, lighting a thin cigar. He's careful about the flame, one of the many ways he acknowledges my condition without ever really doing so.

We stare at the snow falling, under the lights. Flakes of gold, falling through space. I've been out here for an hour, at least. I am a master of staring at snow.

"How's university?" he asks.

"Good."

"And living with Fiona? How is that working out?"

"Fine. I don't spend a lot of time in the flat, what with classes and–" I let the sentence die.

Silence.

"Your Mr. Snow," he begins, and my stomach drops. There's a long pause, and then Father drops his cigar and grinds it out on the flagstone.

"Natasha would have liked him," he says quietly, almost thoughtfully, but I'm grinning inside now because that, _that_ , is the highest seal of approval my father can put on anything. _Mother would have liked him_ …

"See if you can get him to bake something else, though," he says, heading back inside. "We're all going to be dead sick of scones come New Year's."


	2. When I Marry Mr Snow

_A/N: I'm going off-line until after the new year, so I shall leave you with this :)_

 _The title is a song from the musical 'Carousel,' you can listen to it if you want, but it's not really connected. Just my little pun to myself._

 _Read and review and have a fabulous holiday season!_

* * *

When I marry Mr. Snow, it will be at Christmastime, under the trees in Regent's Park, the same place I proposed three months ago.

(Hands holding his to stop them shaking, more nervous than I've ever known myself to be. He couldn't speak after, just made noises at me and smiled. I laughed and said, "Use your words, Snow," and he stepped closer and kissed me. "You want to keep me?" he whispered. "I never want to give you up," I whispered back.)

We were worried it would be cold, but Bunce has come up with a complicated and ingenious system involving decorative heat lamps and the words **It's getting hot in here**.

She will also be the officiant. Snow believes there's nothing she can't do, and I'm inclined to agree with him.

Both our families will be there: Daphne and Father and the kids, and all the Bunces. There will be a small party back at their house after, because of course there has to be food involved, and our friends will come to that. A couple of people from the office, Simon's co-workers at the care center, his mates from cooking class.

Agatha has sent a coffee press and hand-fired mugs, but will be unable to attend.

When I marry Simon, I will put my mother's ring on his hand. (Her hands were large, and strong.) I keep turning it over in my hands, the dark and lovely patina from years of fire changing colors in the winter light. My father called me into his study and gave it to me when we went home to tell them. There was a lot of shoulder patting, and not much talking.

I shall wear a slate blue suit, and he will be in grey.

I fully expect to cry at some point. Snow says I'm getting soft, now I don't have to be evil to him anymore. I growled at him. He laughed.

When I marry the boy I love tomorrow, it will be perfectly imperfect and just the way it should be.

"I choose you, Simon Snow," I will say. "I choose you again, and always."

"I choose you back," he'll say, the way he always does.

And it will be _magic._


End file.
